A Better Version of Myself
by tpel
Summary: Transporting during an ion storm, Mirror Lorca switched places with Prime Lorca; shortly thereafter both of their ships were destroyed. We know what Mirror Lorca did in the prime universe. This is my take on what Prime Lorca might have done in the mirror universe. Can a lone Starfleet officer survive?
1. Chapter 1

It was a rough beam-out.

Gabriel Lorca had traveled by transporter beam thousands of times, and he rarely gave it a second thought. You step on the pad; you step off on the planet, or wherever. And vice-versa. He knew people who fretted about the technology failing and beaming you into a bulkhead, or who spouted metaphysical nonsense about whether you were the same person after re-materialization. Lorca had little patience for all that. A transporter was the fastest way to get from point A to point B, and statistically one of the safest. That was good enough for him.

This time, it wasn't so fast or so easy.

The mission itself had been easy, perhaps even a bit dull: pay a friendly visit to potential Federation trade partners whose goods might be helpful in the war effort. The _Buran_ wasn't the flagship of the fleet, and Lorca was hardly a diplomat. But the ship was impressive enough for the minor players on the planet below, and, as Kat noted, Lorca could be charming when he put his mind to it.

They came; they schmoozed; they left. Or tried to leave. The fast-approaching ion storm caused them to cut the visit short and beam up one at a time. Lorca went last. Captain's prerogative. The additional risk of beaming up ten seconds later was negligible, and little symbolic gestures like this were good for crew morale.

Lorca felt the usual tingling effect of the transporter beam take hold of him. He caught a glimpse of the transporter room. Then it was gone. Then he felt the gravel of the planet's surface crunch under his boots, but visually everything was a blur. All this was accompanied by the nauseating feeling that he was literally in two places at once—stretched thin and not quite whole in either place. When he finally materialized on the transporter pad, he felt dizzy. Puking was a real possibility. He swallowed hard and barked, "Report!"

Someone spoke in reply, but Lorca couldn't have said for the life of him what they reported. His brain was busy trying to process what he saw. This was the transporter room he'd left earlier today . . . but it wasn't. There was an unfamiliar insignia on the wall and the colors were off, as were the colors of the crew's uniforms. Chou, who had beamed up moments before him, was there—dressed in a black uniform with a silver diagonal slash—but Vlostock was gone, replaced by a tall, muscular woman, similarly attired. The Ensign operating the transporter was familiar. But while Lorca recalled him as a slightly goofy curly-haired kid named Jaxon, who tended to look upon his Captain with tongue-tied awe, the boy before him had his hair shaved close above burn scars on his neck. And the look in his eyes was more fear than awe.

As Lorca stepped off the pad, the transporter operator and the security officer standing next to him brought their fists to their chests and stretched out their arms in a gesture resembling an ancient Roman salute. Lorca looked down at his own arms, and was surprised to see that his uniform had changed too, matching the somber hue of the others, but with gold armor-like embellishment at the shoulder.

Jaxon stammered an apology for the transporter difficulties, as the guard began moving toward the kid in an oddly menacing way. Lorca brushed off the apology, "Not your fault. Probably the storm."

The ship shook violently. The ion storm? No. Lorca knew a near-miss by a torpedo when he felt it. They were under attack. And whatever the hell was going on, if the ship was under attack he needed to get to the bridge. So that's where he headed.

XXXXX

The bridge had undergone the same bizarre transformation as the transporter room, as had the corridors he'd sprinted through to get there. Status reports came at him from all sides, most in voices known to him, some not. One of the familiar voices belonged to his first officer, Commander Gupta, who had already ordered shields and evasive maneuvers.

Sensors were rendered fairly useless by the ion storm; the front view screen showed static punctuated by streaks of light. Then it cleared for a moment, revealing the most ridiculously enormous ship Lorca had ever seen. He exclaimed, "What the hell?"

Everyone else looked at the screen in stunned silence.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question, people! Get me an identification: what is it and where's it from?"

The stunned silence turned to puzzlement, with fleeting glances shot in Lorca's direction. He rounded on Gupta, demanding, "What?"

Gupta replied, as if explaining the obvious to someone who'd been bonked on the head, "That's the Emperor's ship, the Charon."

This meant nothing to Lorca, but there wasn't time to pursue the mystery of how the others recognized it. He asked, "Armaments?"

The list was lengthy. The helm's evasive maneuvers were becoming less effective as the ion storm moved away from their orbit, presumably clearing sensors for the larger ship too. Blasts of immense power grazed their shields, bouncing them around and igniting sparks on several consoles.

Lorca ordered, "Evasive pattern Delta-Twelve."

The helmsman didn't seem to understand, so Lorca went over and input the course himself, directing, "Stick with the storm so they can't lock onto us, but move around inside it in case they decide to just fire blind."

The view screen fizzed out again, and the blasts pummeling them diminished. Their cover seemed to be working, for the moment. He turned to Navigation, "Find me somethin' bigger than a planet that we can put between ourselves and _that_. Maybe give us a chance to go to warp undetected."

The navigator nodded, checking. "The ion storm is headed for a star cluster—bearing 122-mark-4. Time to intercept, 11 minutes."

"Alright then: stay the course. Let's try not to get pulverized."

Lorca addressed Gupta, "We need to talk." But before he could continue, the tactical officer blurted out, "Aren't we going to shoot back? . . . Sir."

"You wanna fire on that behemoth? We'd barely make a scratch, and we'd show them exactly where we are." Tactical was a guy Lorca knew; he didn't remember him being such an idiot.

There were scattered grumblings about 'weakness' and 'dying fighting'. Before Lorca could deal with that or corner Gupta, Communications announced that he was needed in the brig.

"Now? Kinda busy."

"Says it's urgent. They're interrogating our contacts from the planet, who might have tipped off the Emperor."

Lorca only understood about half of that last sentence, but he figured there wasn't much he could do on the bridge for the next ten minutes, and he might learn more about what was going on, so he went.

XXXXX

Lorca arrived at the brig to find . . . Marty? No, that couldn't be right. Lt. Martin Heller was slated to take over as the Buran's Security Chief, but he was badly injured—back broken—in combat duty before they shipped out. He never came on board. Yet here he was. Despite the craziness of the situation, Lorca felt a flicker of relief. He'd served with Marty before making Captain; though a subordinate now, he considered the other man a friend.

Warmly, he greeted, "What's up?"

Heller shrugged away the urgency of his call as they walked back further into the brig. With his familiar trace of a Germanic accent, he explained, "I was snooping on the bridge com, smelled blood in the water. Thought you could use a chance to re-group."

Again, Lorca found himself without the context to make sense of all the words. But he got that, in some way, Marty was covering for him. He was about to come clean about the confusing mismatch between what he saw and what he remembered, when they walked through the door to the holding cells.

The room had been completely transformed, expanded. Before, it was a simple affair: two small holding cells with a table and chair outside in front of them. Now there were a half-dozen cells around the perimeter of a large room, and three of what looked like clear upright isolation chambers set up in the interior.

And there was a man hanging by his wrists from the ceiling. Battered. Bleeding. His body distorted by many broken bones. As Heller approached, the man whimpered weakly.

Lorca froze.

Heller, apparently noticing that Lorca was no longer following, looked back at him. With a smirk, he commented, "Yah, I know, you think the booth is more efficient. But this is so much more fun." Not even glancing in the direction of his victim, he struck a precise blow, cracking a rib with a distinctive snap. The hanging man gurgled in distress. Heller grinned, chillingly.

Lorca felt like something in his mind had snapped, too. He'd known Heller for years. One of the best fighters in Starfleet—hand to hand, weapons, you name it. But, despite being quite good at violence, he absolutely viewed it as a last resort. He would walk away from a fight he could easily win, if it meant not having to hurt anyone. Marty taking pleasure in torturing a helpless person . . . it was just unthinkable.

Heller must have read the expression on Lorca's face as disapproval. He released the captive's wrists and let him crumble to the floor. Grabbing the man by one arm, he hauled him into one of the isolation chambers, commenting, "Okay, Captain, we'll do it your way. I'm pretty sure there's not much left to learn. They didn't sell you out, though they were careless with their communications."

Lorca nodded, backing away. He was trying to put the pieces together, but they wouldn't fit. What could possibly cause changes to personalities _and_ clothing? Was the ship out there—unfamiliar to him, but familiar to his crew—involved, somehow? How could he put things back the way they were supposed to be?

The Buran shuddered as the shields withstood another blast . . . barely. _Speak of the devil._ The intercom sounded, calling him back to the bridge.

He ran down the corridor, and had just arrived in front of the turbolift, when the doors slid open and Gupta stepped out. What could have made Number One leave his post at a time like this? Lorca began, "Status? What's . . ."

His words were interrupted by a swift slash from a large knife. Lorca was quick enough to turn sideways, causing the blade cut just below his collarbone—deep, but not deadly. He grabbed Gupta's wrist and slammed his arm against the wall to disarm him. Though a little smaller than Lorca, Gupta was surprisingly strong. He dropped the knife, but rammed Lorca in the solar plexus with some kind of truncheon. Gasping, Lorca managed to land a hard punch to the other man's jaw, then slammed him up against the wall. "Anil . . . stop. Why are you . . ."

"Nothing personal, _sir_ ," Gupta said, smooth voice hardened with distaste, "On the assumption that the Emperor is after _you_ , I'm taking care of the problem and moving up in rank at the same time."

He swung the truncheon at Lorca's ribs. Lorca couldn't avoid the blow entirely, but he was able to trap the weapon under his arm and grab Gupta's wrist, twisting it hard.

Suddenly, they weren't alone. Three crewmen approached, phasers drawn. "You didn't seriously think I would try this without backup, did you?" Gupta rasped.

 _Thunk. Thunk. Thunk._ Before the crewmen could aim, blood spouted around small knives embedded in each of their throats, dropping them instantly. Lorca looked back down the corridor. Heller stood a few yards away, smiling slightly, eyes cold. _Seems I've got some backup of my own_ , Lorca mused.

Heller nodded, then turned and headed back toward the brig. Lorca looked down at Gupta, who, realizing the depth of his screw-up, tried to bargain, "Let's be reasonable . . ."

Lorca decked him.

Seconds later, he was knocked to the deck himself as the ship convulsed violently. The shrieking sound of tearing metal and the roar of depressurization indicated that this wasn't just a flesh-would: their shields had been breached, and at least the outer hull. Lorca staggered to his feet, was thrown sideways against the wall, and fought his way toward the turbolift doors. He reversed course when an explosion took out the lift and at least two floors above, raining shrapnel and flames. Artificial gravity kicked off and on sporadically.

Lorca dragged Gupta away from the worst of it, but had to leave him—sheltered, somewhat, behind a pile of debris. _Sorry, buddy, but I've got a ship full of people who_ didn't _just try to kill me to think about._ The warp containment field couldn't withstand this kind of structural damage. For there to be a chance that any of the crew could survive, he had to make it to Engineering fast. It was a one-way trip. He needed to . . .

Lorca's desperate planning was interrupted by a surreal sight: a meter in front of him, a transporter beam shimmered, depositing a small brown fuzzy shape in mid-air. The wiggy gravity let it float there for a moment. Lorca reached out and caught it. He barely had time to register that it was alive and that it had a metallic device attached to it, when it shimmered again, and both Lorca and the fuzz-ball disappeared.

XXXXX

Author's note: So, what do you think? Worth continuing?


	2. Chapter 2

Lorca re-materialized in the aft section of a small spacecraft. He could see that there was a pilot up front, but couldn't make out much more than the top of the pilot's head over the high-backed flight chair.

He felt a shockwave run through the shuttle. Though the pilot rode the wave expertly, it shook Gabriel to the core of his being: he hadn't made it to the Buran's Engineering section. The warp core had blown. His crew were all dead. He hadn't saved them.

He wanted to sink to his knees in despair, but he didn't. Instead, he stared intently at the furry creature in his hand and forced himself to process the situation analytically. Maybe he had been thinking about this all wrong. It made no kind of sense that one phenomenon could account for the many changes to people and things that he had witnessed. On the other hand, any number of alien forces or toxins could have caused him to mentally break from reality. The world hadn't gone mad; he had. Though the thought of losing his mind troubled him, it wasn't nearly as bad as losing his ship, so for now it was his working hypothesis:

 _None of this is real. My subconscious created a nightmare version of my life, complete with a vicious crew and a big-ass enemy spaceship. Out of self-protection, I threw in an old buddy to look out for me. And, for some reason, a weird floating fuzz-ball._

The pilot stood up and stalked back toward Lorca. She had dark skin and a sharp bob of black hair. Skin-tight pants and a modified flight jacket, all black leather with gold piping along the seams, accentuated every curve. Lorca didn't know her, but he thought he might recognize her from somewhere.

She came up to him, grabbed him by the shirt and wrapped one hand behind his neck. Her neutral expression broke into a beautiful smile as she kissed him eagerly, forcefully.

 _Apparently my subconscious wants me to get with a hot girl, half my age, who's dressed head-to-toe in leather._

Ok, she wasn't quite that young; she was probably thirty-ish. But her petite size and big brown eyes made her look younger. There was nothing innocent in those eyes.

The woman broke off the kiss, pulled back, and delivered a backhand slap across Lorca's face. Playful, he supposed, but only if one plays very rough.

 _And now my subconscious wants me to get smacked around by the hot leather-clad chick . . ._

"Where were you? And what happened to your transponder?" the woman queried, "I had to tap the ship's systems to find your approximate location and send in another one, to get a transporter lock through the storm."

 _Guess I'll play along._ "Good thinking. I got . . . distracted on the way to the turbolift." He deposited the transponder-bearing furry animal on a nearby shelf.

She smirked. Apparently he'd succeeded in sounding intriguingly cryptic, rather than clueless. She ran a finger above the bloody gash across his chest from Gupta's knife. Concern showed in the pursing of her lips and widening of her eyes, but didn't quite make it to that crease between her eyes. He brushed past her, heading for the cockpit. He sat down in the right-hand seat, surveyed their heading, and looked up at her expectantly.

She sat in the other seat and explained, "Mother didn't detect my ship, or your beam-out. So, she thinks that you killed me, and she killed you. She'll never see us coming, when we move against her."

 _Lovely._ It sounded like everything was going to plan, whatever that plan was. Lorca fished, "What's next?"

That was a misstep. The woman's eyes narrowed as she said, "We're set to rendezvous with supporters on Doran 7."

"Right, of course. Got banged around a bit before your timely rescue," he offered with a self-deprecating smile, "Still waiting for my brain to catch up."

"Awww, poor baby," she purred, wiping blood that he hadn't noticed from his forehead, her tone more seductive than sympathetic. Starting to un-do his shirt, she continued, "I hope you remember the really important things . . ."

"Like you," he smiled, caressing the side of her face and sliding the seat back to give them room.

"Like me," she agreed, moving on to her own clothing. She pushed him backward, straddling his legs and kissing his neck.

"Always"—and then he did remember where he'd seen her—"Michael."

XXXXX

Lorca woke up first. They were squished together in the tiny bunk; his arm, wrapped around Michael, kept her from falling out. He mocked himself: _Well, it's nice to know my mind can come up with more than just violence._ Still, the theme of betrayal loomed large. He had recognized Michael Burnham from images he'd seen right after the Battle at the Binary Stars. Why would he incorporate the infamous mutineer into his fantasy as his lover?

Though this new turn of events was fun, he was starting to get restless. A small, childish part of him had hoped his awareness that what he experienced wasn't real would trigger him to snap out of it. That may work for bad dreams, not so much for psychotic breaks. Realistically, there probably wasn't much he could do—just hope that whatever caused his mental predicament affected only him, or only the landing party, and that the rest of his crew could figure out how to help.

He didn't do dependence well, but there was no point whining about it. He would continue to go with the flow, seeing where events led, just in case his it's-all-in-your-mind hypothesis was wrong. And, if it was right, well, he grinned as he imagined Kat telling him to take advantage of this opportunity to listen to his subconscious.

Michael stretched, slid out of Lorca's embrace, retrieved her clothing, and headed for the forward compartment of the vessel. Soon thereafter, Lorca went to the head and cleaned up a bit, running a dermal regenerator over the gash in his chest that had more-or-less stopped bleeding. He found some civilian clothes to put on, including a nice leather coat, and went to join his companion.

She seemed a bit distant, but warmed up as they approached their destination. He managed to subtly wheedle the following information out of her: Michael's mother was, indeed, the Emperor, and she was ticked at Lorca because he had tried to kill her. They were getting set to try again, and had recruited a substantial army of backers—though many of them had been captured in the first assassination attempt.

 _So, I wanna kill the queen and become king. And I'm sleeping with the princess, and maybe slept with the queen, too. Subconscious-Me is kind of a dog._

They docked in an automated orbiting space port and beamed down to Doran, arriving at what looked like a once-bustling colony, now gone to seed. A large ore refinement facility had been repurposed as a market for traders—mostly human, but with a scattering of other species. The items for sale ran the gamut from trinkets and daily necessities to high-end luxury merchandise and illegal weaponry. Michael led the way to meet up with a pair of arms dealers, whom they followed to a transport vehicle, which brought them to the outskirts of the commerce district.

Lorca found himself sitting next to Michael, in a room with about a dozen men and a few women. All were tough-looking. Apparently, some of them were independent operators, though most headed gangs of malcontents. More than half were already loyal to Lorca and Michael, and the others were considering joining up. They were keen on ousting the Emperor and seemed to think they would get a better deal under Lorca, though it wasn't clear why. He found that all he had to do was echo their macho horseshit sentiments and leave the details to Michael, and everyone was happy. After a couple of hours of discussion, they welcomed the newest recruits to their cause.

"This is cause for celebration," Michael announced. "Under the Emperor, the choice goods stayed within the palace. No more. When we've rid the Empire of the corruption creeping over our borders, all will enjoy the bounty. Until then, I've arranged to share a special delicacy with you, our friends and allies."

She nodded to one of their followers, who ducked out of the room. He returned, bringing with him two kelpiens, held by ropes around their necks. They must have been young adolescents, as they barely topped the man's shoulders.

To enthusiastic grins all around, Michael continued, "Tonight we dine on the most tender morsels!"

 _Holy shit—did that just happen?_ Out loud, Lorca sputtered, "No way. No. What are you fixin' to do?"

Michael laughed, though her eyes registered concern at his outburst. "So sorry, Darling, for not filling you in on the surprise. Come, let's go make sure they are prepared correctly."

She followed the man with the kelpiens out to a large industrial kitchen, with Lorca close behind. He grabbed her by the arm, demanding, "What are you playin' at?"

She countered, "What's the matter with you? I know it's a splurge, but—"

"We don't eat children! That's what's the matter!"

Michael looked genuinely puzzled, but also annoyed. "You like the adults better? Since when? In any case, that's no reason to jeopardize our recruiting efforts."

Lorca was done playing along. He didn't care if this was all in his head. The thought of eating an intelligent being was repugnant. It was time to take charge of this sick fantasy.

"Look, honey, I'm outta here. They're coming with me," he gestured toward the kelpiens, who stared back in mute terror, "And you can do—"

He was interrupted by a sharp blow to the back of his head. Everything went dark.

XXXXX

Lorca came-to back on the small vessel in which he and Michael had been travelling, hands bound behind his back. This time they weren't alone; two of the thugs they'd met with on Doran had come along. Michael now seemed to think that Lorca was up to some nefarious plot to betray her, or that he was actually an enemy imposter in disguise. She asked him questions he couldn't answer, and had the thugs beat him when his answers were unsatisfactory. They were pretty incompetent at following directions, and kept punching him in the face rather than the body, which, predictably, led to knocking him unconscious.

He woke up to see an exasperated expression on Michael's face. She didn't suffer fools gladly. Lorca guessed that, if he actually did know her, that was something he liked about her. Trying to make a connection, he smirked and drawled, "Hard to find good help nowadays, ain't it?"

She chuckled and looked at him with less animosity than she had recently. He addressed her softly, "I'm not your enemy, Michael."

Michael ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, bringing it to rest gently along the side of his face. "We'll see about that," she replied, a trace of regret in her determined gaze. A hypospray in her other hand sent him back to dreamland.

XXXXX

The drug wore off gradually. Lorca was still pretty out of it when their vessel docked inside a much larger ship. Michael led the way, as he stumbled along between the two thugs. They arrived at ornately furnished guest quarters, where they let him crumple to his knees. He kept his head down, eyes closed, to combat dizziness.

The door swishing open caused him to look up. In walked a girl a bit younger than Michael, with a round face and long strawberry-blond hair. Michael addressed her as "Captain" but then went on to call her "Sylvia, dear" as the two women embraced.

They chatted like good friends. After a few minutes, Lorca found that his mind was clear enough to follow what was going on. The younger woman saw him watching and walked over, a predatory smile on her face. She giggled and said in a sing-song voice, "Don't worry, Michael, no one will know you are here," then, nudging Lorca with the toe of her boot, she added, "He'll be happy to tell us all his secrets."

Lorca wasn't sure if she was silly or scary. Maybe both.

The thugs boosted him to his feet and they followed the women down a deserted corridor. Lorca found he was able to walk steadily now, but saw no opportunity for escape, particularly as a large guard fell in alongside the Captain. They approached a set of double doors, from behind which emanated strange, muffled cries.

The doors opened and the cries were no longer muffled. They were piercing, heart-rending. A man and a woman stood inside clear isolation chambers, like the ones on the transformed Buran. Electric lights danced all over their bodies. Limbs jerked spasmodically, as if jittering on a live wire. And they screamed, no _shrieked_ at the top of their lungs. These were the kinds of cries that you expect to hear choked off after a minute, since the human body can't sustain that kind of agony. But no. They went on and on, unnervingly.

Lorca had been transfixed with empathy for the two suffering souls. Now he registered a third chamber, and that he was being propelled toward it. He panicked and tried to pull away but he was outnumbered, with the thugs' hands clamped around both his arms and the guard shoving him from behind. They threw him into the chamber. The guard held him there, by his throat, for a moment, while Michael released the bonds around his wrists. Then they slammed the door shut, trapping him inside.

He followed Michael with wide eyes as she walked behind a control panel. Her fingers flew along the pad. She pressed a button.

He screamed until his throat was raw. And then he kept on screaming.

XXXXX

Hope you are enjoying this. Feedback is appreciated :-)


	3. Chapter 3

Gabriel Lorca lay curled on his side, on the floor of a holding cell, wishing he was dead.

At the moment, he wasn't in the Agony Booth—a device whose name made up for its lack of creativity with its stunning accuracy—so he supposed he had that much to be thankful for. But his body was still a twitching, painful wreck. He couldn't move, not voluntarily anyway. Yet every few minutes his breath hitched and muscles spasmed, as hellish aftershocks ran through him. The tile floor was cold, making him shiver and robbing him of any chance at what he wanted most: sleep, oblivion.

The holding cells were arranged with an excellent view of the agony booths—lest one forget their ever-present threat. He would never forget. He hadn't thought that kind of pain, for that duration, was even possible. It was incomprehensible. Like being repeatedly electrocuted, but with none of the numbing that normally comes after the initial shock; like having each piece of you torn apart continuously, yet somehow stay together inside your skin. And no matter how much you pray to pass out, it never lets you rest, not even for a moment.

As a torture device, the agony booth was ingenious; as an interrogation device, it left something to be desired. Michael had paused it three times (after how long, he had no idea) and asked him questions. The first time he couldn't even focus his eyes on her or understand what she was saying; the second time, he tried to speak, but found that his brain and mouth were no longer connected. Finally, the third time she stopped the machine, she pulled him out of it:

 _Retching on the ground at Michael's feet, he managed to croak, "Stop."_

" _Will you tell me what I want to know?"_

 _He nodded meekly, "I'll try."_

" _Who are you?"_

" _Gabriel Lorca."_

 _Michael moved to put him back in the machine, so he added quickly, "Just 'cuz you don't like an answer doesn't make it false. To the best of my knowledge, my name is Gabriel Lorca. Has been for more'n fifty years."_

" _I've known Lorca since I was a child. You are . . . different. Ever since I beamed you off the Buran."_

 _Sticking with name, rank, and serial number would just land him back in a world of hurt, so he elaborated a little, "I'm having trouble remembering things." He paused as a tremor ran through him. "Started just before you rescued me."_

 _Michael looked at him thoughtfully. "So, you are either the man I know and someone has altered your mind, or you are an imposter who believes he is Gabriel, or you are lying to me."_

" _That about covers it," he sighed. "And I'm not lyin'. So how are you going to figure out which it is? You don't really think this is a problem you can torture your way out of, do you?"_

 _He was trying to appeal to the smart woman within the child-eating monster. It seemed to be working. "There are some things I can investigate," she mused, pulling him to his feet._

 _Then she shoved him back inside the booth, shut the door, and walked back to the control panel._

" _No! Please—I'm telling the truth," he said, voice rising._

" _My Gabriel would never beg," came the cold reply._

" _Then your Gabriel is a damn fool."_

 _Her eyebrows quirked, a trace of a frown. Ah, there it was: she was fond of "her Gabriel" but perhaps not as much as he was of her; at the end of the day, he was expendable. She would seize power with him, or without him._

" _Captain Tilly will take charge of you. If I find you are who you claim to be, and restoring your mind is feasible, I'll be back."_

 _She pushed the button. White-hot agony swallowed him whole._

Eventually he'd been released from the booth and dumped in the cell. A technician came in and scanned him thoroughly, taking skin and bone marrow samples. She murmured something about anomalous readings at the sub-atomic level and exited, leaving Lorca sprawled on his back, panting against rising nausea. He made a herculean effort and rolled from his back to his side, then lay there, depleted and shaking. The leather coat the tech pulled off him for the exam had been dropped carelessly a couple of meters away; it might as well have been light-years away.

The worst part for him wasn't the physical pain, however, or its debilitating after-effects. It was the creeping certainty that his own mind could not have produced such suffering. That meant this wasn't all in his head. It was real. He told himself: _Well, I could still be in a lab somewhere with an evil scientist stimulating my pain receptors._ But he couldn't make himself believe that. If it was real, then the Buran was really gone, his crew was really dead, he had really failed them. The anguish was overwhelming, but he didn't even have the energy to grieve properly. He lay there, eyes half open, staring blankly at the base of the agonizer, trying to mentally recite the name of each crew member on the Buran's manifest. Exhausted, he kept losing his place, starting over . . .

XXXXX

There were no clocks and the lights were always on, so it was hard to measure the passage of time. Based on the light scruff that now covered his chin and a vaguely perceived shift change, Lorca estimated that his ordeal with the agonizer had taken place over the course of about two days and that he'd been lying in the cell for a few more hours after that. Moving was still not something he even wanted to think about, but he was becoming more aware of his surroundings. The cell he was in was 5 meters square, white, and featureless except for an open latrine in the back corner. The front of the cell was a clear force field. There were cells on either side. He couldn't see inside them, but could hear voices and sometimes saw prisoners being tossed into them.

There was a commotion out in front of the cells, as a group of eight Tellarites was herded into the brig. Electric prods kept them moving along, grunting and squealing. The guards pulled three prisoners—two Klingons and an Andorian—out of the cell to Lorca's right and moved the Tellarites in there. Then, commenting dryly that "this should be fun" one of the guards forced the three into the cell with Lorca.

Though aware of his vulnerable state, Lorca wasn't afraid. True, the Klingons might hurt him, but whatever they did would be nothing in comparison to what he'd recently been through. And he'd long ago established the habit of worrying about things he could control, not things he couldn't. The fact of the matter was, he was helpless. The newcomers would do what they would do.

The Andorian looked him over with an unreadable expression. Andoria was an ally, yet individual Andorians were known to be mercurial and unpredictable. One of the Klingons spat something in his guttural language. The other actually spat—on the floor near, but not on, Lorca—and growled, "Terran scum."

Lorca met all their gazes boldly, though the onset of a bout of shivering didn't help. Glaring down at him with contempt, the Klingons muttered to each other. One of them laughed derisively. Then they moved away and ignored him.

The Andorian picked up the leather coat and fingered it thoughtfully, antennae dipping in the human's direction. _Ah well_ , Lorca thought, _easy come, easy go_. Then, much to his surprise, blue hands draped the coat over him.

The relative warmth hit him like a drug. While the muscle spasms continued, suddenly he could sleep between them, sometimes even through them. He was out before he could even express his gratitude.

XXXXX

Lorca woke to sounds of activity at the front of the cell. The guards were distributing food: ration bars and cups of water. His nap had done him good. Standing might still be beyond him, but he was able to push himself up to a sitting position.

"You want?" the Andorian asked. Lorca shook his head. He was pretty sure he couldn't keep any food down just yet, and he wasn't fit enough to defend a stash if he saved it for later. The others scarfed the bars. The Andorian handed him a cup, saying, "You should drink."

Swallowing hurt, but after a couple of sips he was able to rasp, "Thank you."

Feeling not quite as wretched as he had previously, hearing the familiar sound of Tellarites bickering next door, and experiencing the kindness of a stranger, cheered him immensely. _God, you're so easy. Life sucks a little less, and suddenly it's worth living again?_ He decided to reach out to his cellmates, "So, who are you all?"

Predictably, the Klingons scowled. The Andorian was more sociable. "You can call me Otib," he said, "and these fine gentlemen are Huss and Ko'mek of the house—" he was cut off by a growl from Huss—"well, perhaps we'll leave it at that. Best not to be too familiar under these circumstances."

Fair enough. "I'm Gabriel."

Otib told the Klingons, "He tried to convince Killy's friend that he's Lorca."

Apparently Otib had been observing the interrogation. Ko'mek, the younger of the Klingons (maybe twenty, while Huss looked closer to thirty), seemed slightly impressed as he said, " _Why?_ He's the most wanted man in the galaxy."

"Yeah, I hear I tried to whack the Emperor," Lorca commented, dryly. "Tell me: are we on a Federation vessel?"

"This is the _Imperial_ Starship Discovery," Huss sneered. "You Terrans' latest tool of oppression."

Follow-up questions revealed that humans had subjugated most of the known galaxy, with Klingons, Vulcans, Andorians, Tellarites, and other races banding together to resist them.

Lorca shook his head, befuddled. "That's . . . that's not how I remember it."

The Klingons bristled at the suggestion that they were lying, but Lorca defused them: "I believe you. It matches what I've seen lately." He added softly, "But it's not the world I know."

His distress must have shown. Otib said, kindly, "My people have an old folk tale about a boy who falls through the ice and emerges in a different world, where the snow is a different shade of white."

Humans had such stories, too, about children who travel through mirrors or wardrobes or tiny wormholes, arriving in fantastical realms. Lorca recalled a darker take on this theme. When he was five, he'd swiped a PADD from his older sister and found the story _Coraline_. It scared the pants off him, but he kept reading it anyway, late into the night. Ended up in his sister's bed crying that an evil clone of their mother was going to sew buttons in his eyes.

He wasn't a child now, and he wasn't expecting help from any magical lions. But thinking of his current situation as a _world_ —like his own in some ways, different in others—helped him wrap his head around it better.

XXXXX

Lorca spent the next couple of hours peppering his cellmates with questions, some about the world at large, but most about the ship they were on and the routines they had observed: shift changes, guard complements, prisoner movements, etc. The first thing he inquired about, naturally, was brig surveillance, as that would determine what else he could ask. The answer, bizarrely, was that there was practically none. The official reason for not bugging the brig was that the screaming from the agony booths drowned out the audio. That was ridiculous; video alone is useful and sounds can be filtered. The real reason seemed to be a permissive attitude toward crewmembers abusing prisoners and using the agonizer on rivals. These activities were officially prohibited, yet tacitly condoned; hence it was best not to record evidence.

A sudden absence of sound marked the arrival of an important visitor to the brig: Captain Tilly. The agony booths were shut down, silencing their occupants, and the guards snapped to attention. Tilly beamed with delight at the surrounding misery, or perhaps at her power to cause such misery. Along with her personal guard, she came to a stop directly in front of Lorca's cell. He got himself up to his feet, ready to deal with her.

But, it turned out, she wasn't there for him. "There you are—the _miscreants_ who dared try to harm me, who murdered my devoted personal guard!"

Glaring at Huss and Ko'mek, she continued, "I hope you've enjoyed my . . . hospitality," (she ran a loving finger down the glass of an agony booth) "though I hear you haven't been as talkative as we hoped." In the scope of fifteen seconds, her tone had gone from furious, to mock-solicitous, to scolding and pouting.

The Klingons were clearly unimpressed with her creepy-baby routine. Huss shot back, "You attacked our people. Your guard got a better death than he deserved."

Anger flashed across Tilly's eyes before transmuting to glee. "Thank you for helping me decide which of you to dispose of first."

A guard tapped on a control screen to the side of the cell and immediately all of the occupants sat or fell down, lightly stunned. An opening appeared in the force field and a pair of guards hustled Huss out through it, throwing him into the left-most agony booth. Tilly explained, conversationally, "Everybody knows you can die in the agonizer. Really, the trick is _not_ letting the victim's heart give out. But did you know that, at the highest setting, you can literally make someone's head explode? Well, perhaps not literally. Still, it's supposed to be quite dramatic."

"Let's watch, shall we?" she said eagerly, nodding to one of her minions at the controls.

It took six minutes for Huss to die. His head didn't explode, but his face swelled and his eyes bulged out enormously. Blood leaked from every orifice. And the cries he made were inhuman. Of course, he _was_ inhuman. That should have made it easier to watch. It didn't.

Lorca was distracted from the horror by Huss' kinsman, who kept flinging himself at the force field and hollering—at first in English then slipping into his native tongue. Otib went to restrain him, so he wouldn't hurt himself, and got tossed across the room for his trouble.

When it was over, a guard dumped Huss' body on the floor in front of the booth. Ko'mek slammed the force field with both fists, fixed Tilly with a glare of pure hatred, and in a quiet, deadly tone promised to do unspeakable things to her. Lorca didn't need to understand much Klingon to get the gist of his threat. Tilly answered him back in what sounded like fluent Klingon, incongruent against her perky demeanor.

"You know," she mused next, "This was fun. But I think it would be more fun with better company. I was going to do both of you today, one after another, but I think I'll wait a couple of days until our mutual friend"—she looked at Lorca—"is back, and we can watch together. Girlfriend time is so important, you know?"

She spun on her heel and left, instructing the guards to continue as usual, but to leave the corpse for a while so the prisoners could enjoy the aroma.

XXXXX

Hours later, Ko'mek was still livid, still swearing bloody vengeance. Lorca sympathized with him, but the futility of it was starting to get on his nerves. He snapped, "They're out there; you're in here. Unless you have a transporter pad hidden away somewhere, I don't see how you're gonna pull this off."

"I will not die in a cage, like an animal awaiting slaughter! A Klingon must die in battle! With honor!"

At least the guy seemed to get that death was the likely outcome of whatever he tried to do. But that just made it all the more futile. "You can _live_ honorably," Lorca sighed, "Dead is just dead."

Ko'mek looked like he might punch him, then turned away in disgust. Lorca wasn't trying to be obtuse. He wouldn't wish an end like Huss' on anybody, though he knew for a fact that Klingons inflicted torturous deaths that lasted a whole lot longer than six minutes. He would just rather invest his limited energy into figuring out ways to make them all _not_ dead, rather than worrying about _how_ they died. Seeking unlikely vengeance was counterproductive.

Ko'mek explained in a low growl, "A warrior can only enter Sto-vo-kor if he dies in battle. Instead of letting us do so, the Terrans capture us and then execute us. Twelve others were taken with me. None of them died well."

 _Religion._ Lorca came from a part of the world that clung to it longer than most. So he should have known better than to argue. Apparently he didn't. "Doesn't seem fair," he countered. "What if a warrior steps away from the battle for a moment and, I don't know, gets squished by a falling rock?"

Ko'mek didn't catch the sarcasm. He answered, "Legend has it that Kor'lang was waging a decade-long war against his enemies, but suddenly became ill and died. His son took up his father's bat'leth and slew the rival leader, dying himself in the process. Father and son toasted the victory together in Sto-vo-kor."

This wasn't getting them anywhere. "I don't suppose it would help if _I_ killed you?" Lorca offered, half-serious.

The Klingon laughed humorlessly. Otib explained, "It's my understanding that if he died in personal combat with you, that would count. However . . ."

"If we fight, _you_ die, not me," Ko'mek snorted.

Lorca was annoyed at their assumption that the Klingon could kill him easily, but he had to admit that was the most likely outcome.

He turned their predicament over and over in his mind, but kept coming to the same conclusion: there was no way he could save Ko'mek, Otib, and himself, before Michael returned in a couple of days—which would trigger the Klingon's death and possibly his own. No-win scenarios stymied people because, when they realized they couldn't win, they stopped thinking. Rookie mistake. The fact that you can't win doesn't mean you can't lose less badly or nudge the odds slightly in your favor. And there might be a course of action whereby Ko'mek would get his honorable death, while increasing the chances that Otib and Lorca would survive. He didn't love the idea of sacrificing Ko'mek for their benefit. Yet he liked it better than wasting the guy's death. And, despite his irritation with the Klingon's fixation on manner of death, he did respect his right to choose how he dies.

Lorca waited until two agony booths were running, to provide auditory cover if necessary. Then he addressed Ko'mek quietly, "I can't get you a shot at Tilly. But I think there's a way you can at least go out fighting. Here's what we're gonna do . . ."

XXXXX

After the three of them hashed out the details of the plan, there was nothing to do but wait for their window of opportunity. Otib had a better sense of time than the others; he estimated they had about seven hours. Enough time to rest, prepare mentally for the action to come. Otib lay on the right side of the cell, perpendicular to the front. His antennae continued to move around long after he looked like he was asleep, but eventually they stopped. Lorca lay on his side near the rear of the cell, facing the front—the direction from which any threat might come. Hardly the cushiest of accommodations, but he'd survived worse.

The problem was Ko'mek. He stayed at the front of the cell. Pacing back and forth none-too-quietly. And muttering under his breath. And lashing out at any guard who came near the cell by slamming the force field and snarling.

Basically, driving Lorca crazy.

 _Maybe it's time to reconsider killing him myself._

 _Or maybe he's a scared kid, who is likely going to die tomorrow, and I should stop being an ass about it._

 _Whoa—where did that come from? Am I supposed to care about the Klingon's_ feelings _now?_

 _Dammit._

Lorca whispered, "Ko'mek. Come here."

After a sullen pause, the Klingon came over and stood looming over where Lorca lay. "What?" he demanded.

"I ever tell you about the Battle at the Binary Stars?" asked Lorca.

"You don't _remember_? You've known me for less than a day." The young man seemed appalled that he was going to put his fate in the hands of such a dotard.

Lorca rolled his eyes. "Figure of speech. It means 'sit down, shut up, and listen'."

Reluctantly, Ko'mek sat. Speaking quietly, Lorca launched into a blow-by-blow description of various clashes between the Klingons and the Federation that he'd participated in or witnessed. He focused on the ones that the Klingons got the better of, or at least fought valiantly and died in a blaze of glory. Had to be the weirdest bedtime story he—or probably anybody—had ever told.

After a while, he glanced over at Ko'mek. The Klingon was sitting with his knees pulled up and elbows resting on them, entranced and relaxed.

"I wish I could go to your world," Ko'mek said softly, wistfully.

Lorca pointed out, "You know, you and I would be enemies there. Opposite sides of the war."

"That's alright. I would be pleased to slay you in battle."

Lorca grinned. As death threats go, that was actually kind of sweet.

XXXXX

Note: Yeah, I know, not much action in this chapter, as it all takes place within a 15'x15' cell. But I wanted to get some character stuff in there :-)


	4. Chapter 4

The first challenge facing the escape plan was the accuracy of their intelligence.

Otib had been in the brig for over a week and had observed a fairly regular schedule with regard to the agony booths. The one to the left, from the perspective of the cells, was used for special interrogations and short-term crew punishments. Prisoners cycled through the other two for standard sessions of six to eight hours. The guards had started using the right-hand booth for the Tellarites, which left the center booth for them.

This information was important because, typically, the only time there weren't at least two guards attending each prisoner who was outside of a cell or agony booth was when one prisoner was being removed from the booth, to be replaced by another. For this, generally only two guards supervised both prisoners. Perhaps the guards were supposed to move the prisoner from the booth into the cell first, then move the other prisoner from cell to booth. But usually they just followed an efficient pattern: stun the people in the cell, drag the next victim out, then throw the person coming off the agonizer into the cell while near-simultaneously shoving the next person into the booth. It all happened within a few seconds, and neither prisoner was in much shape to fight, given that one was stunned and the other had just been agonized.

If their guesses about the schedule were right, there should be just such a situation coming up: Lorca would be in the agony booth for the first shift, followed immediately by Ko'mek.

And so it was. Lorca couldn't say he was happy when they tossed him into the booth that morning, but at least he had the satisfaction of seeing the plan coming together.

XXXXX

The second challenge facing their plan was Lorca remembering that there _was_ a plan.

He wasn't capable of much in the way of rational thought when he was in the agony booth. So, it was a real question whether he would be able to get his wits about him immediately upon release, in order to act. He'd raised that issue with his cellmates while they were hashing out the details of the plan:

" _I've seen people come out of the booth looking a lot better than me. They're not exactly dancing jigs, but they're alert and ambulatory. How come it kicks my butt more than them?"_

" _You are old and weak," Ko'mek offered, helpfully. Lorca scowled at him._

 _Otib said, "If it's true that you are new to our world, then you haven't built up any tolerance. It never hurts any less while you are in the booth, but you eventually become more able to function afterward." As Ko'mek began boasting about his own ability to shake off the effects, Otib added, with a smirk, "And then the brain damage sets in."_

Neither of them had been able to offer much in the way of practical advice. Apparently, Vulcans had techniques for keeping one's mind focused during the torture, but both Otib and Ko'mek seemed to find Vulcans cold and overly intellectual, so they hadn't learned said techniques. The best they could come up with was mentally yelling the thing you are trying to remember at yourself, like an angry mantra.

Fortunately, it kind of worked. Sure, a lot of the time he was in the booth he was a gibbering idiot, with not a thought in his mind but the pain and needing it to stop NOW. But he had moments of relative coherence, when he reminded himself what he had to do. And when the agonizer door slid open and he saw Ko'mek being brought toward him, everything snapped into place.

XXXXX

The third challenge facing the plan was whether Lorca would physically be able to do anything upon release from the agony booth. Past experience suggested that curling up and shuddering were about all he could manage.

He didn't need to do much; Ko'mek would handle the heavy lifting. But Lorca needed to create a distraction to occupy the guards long enough for Ko'mek to recover from being stunned. The stunning was minimal—they wanted prisoners to be able to walk and didn't want them to miss out on any of the agony. And Klingons bounced back quickly. Probably a minute or two would do it.

Lorca didn't resist as he was hauled out of the booth, letting the guard do most of the work. Then, when he was out, he brought his hand to his stomach and pitched forward suddenly, counting on the universal aversion to having someone throw up on your shoes to make the guard let go of him and step back. Instead of puking, he fell to the ground, rolling toward the guard so that he knocked into his legs, sending him staggering into the second guard, who was minding Ko'mek. Both guards went down momentarily, but quickly disentangled themselves from each other and turned their anger on Lorca, kicking him first in the stomach, and then, when he rolled over in the other direction to avoid this, in the back and kidneys.

Rolling over brought Lorca face-to-face with Huss' putrefying corpse. He flinched away, looking back over his shoulder to see Ko'mek shaking his head to clear it. Seized with sudden inspiration, Lorca ran his hand along Huss' midsection until he found the buckle of his belt. Naturally, their captors had stripped them of all potential weapons. But this was just a simple ring of metal, attached to a thin strip of leather. No sharp edges, not even all that heavy. Lorca pulled the belt from Huss' body and made eye contact with Ko'mek, before tossing the belt up to the younger Klingon.

For a split second, Ko'mek stared dumbly at the object he'd caught in his hand. Then his eyes lit up with understanding, delight, and fury. He shouted something in Klingon—the only word Lorca understood was Huss' name—as he took up the belt and swung it, whipping it through the air to strike one of the guards in the eye with the buckle. That guard went down, clutching his face, while Ko'mek turned on the other one and strangled him with the leather strap.

Two more guards ran into the brig, followed by a third. Ko'mek used the strangled guard's sword to dispatch the first two, while Lorca picked off the third with the guard's phaser. The third man had just been entering the brig and the door hadn't yet closed after him; he fell in the doorway, keeping it open. Ko'mek charged out through the opening, continuing his killing spree in the hallway.

Now came the trickiest part of the plan, the part where outcomes were unpredictable and decisions would need to be made.

Though every muscle in his body screamed at him to stay down, Lorca dragged himself over and up to the control panel. He started trying out security codes. On the "this is a different-but-similar world" hypothesis, it stood to reason that there must be some insanely improbable coincidences at play. Despite completely different political structures and historical events, many of the same people existed, doing similar jobs on similar ships. That meant that somehow, against astronomical odds, sperm and eggs identical to those in the world with which he was familiar must have combined. And perhaps less improbable but more intuitively striking, many ships had the same names and layouts as their his-world counterparts. Who the hell names a warship 'Discovery'? Yet he knew the Federation was building a science vessel with that name.

So, it was at least possible that some of the access codes from his world would be the same here. Now, if he had only his own codes to work with, the chances of success would be negligible. But, as it happened, Lorca was something of a collector of other people's codes. Any time he heard someone with a useful rank or access level use their code, he noted it. You never know when there'll be an emergency, or when there'll be some information he needs that Starfleet brass is not sharing. Back home, he had a list of about twenty codes, though he had only a dozen or so committed to memory. He tried them all, restarting the procedures frequently so the computer didn't lock him out for repeated errors.

Bingo!—one of them worked. To test his access (and to be a decent human being), he shut down the right-hand agony booth, where one of the Tellarites had been howling. All eyes in the brig were on him now, and he had a tough choice to make. He could open the cell doors and they could leave the brig, but then what? Even if he and Otib managed to steal a shuttle, they would be shot down before they made it to safety. The alternative was to learn all he could from the terminal, then play possum and wait for a better opportunity that might never come.

The prisoners in the cells were clamoring for release. One voice made itself heard above the din: an older, portly Tellarite bellowed, "We have a ship! Free us, Terran!"

That tilted the odds in favor of immediate action. Lorca dropped the force fields for all the cells, five in total: the Tellarites' cell, the one containing Otib, two containing a few humans, and one that was dark, apparently unoccupied. He figured the other prisoners would either become his allies or become useful distractions.

The prisoners spilled out of the cells. Otib wisely gathered the remaining weapons from the fallen guards. Lorca asked the older Tellarite, "Where's your ship?"

"We were in a small merchant-ship when they caught us. Last I saw it, it was in the docking bay. We have a bigger ship nearby." Then the Tellarite looked Lorca over with suspicion. "Who are you, Terran? Are you Resistance?"

Before Lorca could decide which lie would be most effective, Otib stepped in with, "Yes. He's with me."

Time was of the essence. Security was presumably focusing their efforts on Ko'mek, but at any moment more guards could come through the door to make sure the Klingon was the only escapee. While the Tellarites were milling around, the humans were edging toward the exits. That made sense. The humans were probably crew members, here for disciplinary infractions. They might want to get out of the brig, but they were unlikely to throw their lot in with a bunch of aliens to actually try to leave the ship. And, while the aliens he met seemed not to recognize Lorca as his alter ego, Terrans might. That could be useful.

In a loud, authoritative tone, Lorca addressed the room at large, "If you're with me, fine. If not, feel free to leave. We're taking Discovery. I've got people on decks 6 and 9. Our first stop is the Armory, then on to Engineering."

The Tellarites looked startled, and even Otib cocked his head to the side curiously. The last of the humans fled the brig. After a beat, the old Tellarite said gruffly, "That's a stupid idea. You're going to get us all killed. And who put _you_ in charge?"

Lorca responded, "Of course it's a terrible idea. I'm counting on the Terran prisoners who just left sharing it with their superiors, in order to get back in their good graces."

The Tellarite snorted appreciatively.

"I don't have any 'people'. It's just the ten of us—eleven, if we can corral our angry young Klingon. Which reminds me . . ." Lorca went over to the first guard Ko'mek attacked, pulled him up to a seated position, looked him in his remaining eye and asked, "You want to live?"

The man nodded, warily. Lorca said, "Report that the Captain's new personal guard is complicit in the break-out and attempted coup. You can say you heard it from him"—he gestured toward the strangled guard—"so you don't get blamed if it turns out to be false." The guard complied, and Lorca knocked him unconscious with the butt of his gun.

The group left the brig and moved down the corridor cautiously, Otib and a pair of Tellarites in the lead. Lorca brought up the rear, alongside the senior Tellarite—whose name he learned was Taureg, though everyone called him "Targ". He walked with Targ to be able to confer with him, and not at all because, post-agonizer, a rotund aging Tellarite was about his speed. As they passed bodies Ko'mek had left in his wake, the Tellarites efficiently appropriated weapons.

"You are trying to confuse the girl-Captain." Targ said.

"Yep," Lorca confirmed. Though probably not as crazy as she pretended to be, at her age Tilly couldn't have all that much command experience. He wanted to feed her paranoia, get her looking for internal threats rather than focusing on potential escape routes. Since her personal guard must be a recent replacement of the one the Klingons killed, he was a plausible target for mistrust. Lorca also recalled that he was big and strong, maybe tough enough to take on Ko'mek. Casting suspicion on him might remove a threat, should Ko'mek make it into Tilly's presence.

Tellarites were known for being fierce and methodical fighters. These were no exception. But they were also keener than others of their race Lorca had met, moving swiftly without the usual grumbling. They met little resistance, dispatching maybe a dozen attackers before arriving at a small unmanned auxiliary control room just outside the docking bay. As the nonhumans would attract attention standing in the corridor, they all had to crowd inside. Lorca was only able to gain limited access to the computer, but it was enough to determine that the Tellarites' vessel was inside the bay, along with a number of small combat crafts, and that there was a supply transport ship scheduled to depart soon.

"So, just how attached are you to your ship?" Lorca asked Targ.

Targ grumbled.

XXXXX

The bay doors opened, and the Tellarites charged straight for their ship, thundering like a herd of wild boar. They took out the security officers guarding the impounded vessels and, by the time crewmen from elsewhere in the docking bay arrived to engage them, they had boarded their ship and established defensible positions near the entry door. Taking advantage of the distraction provided by the initial charge, Lorca and Otib slipped onto the supply transport vessel and quietly disabled its three-person crew. The last crewman to be stunned input the necessary take-off procedures, motivated by Otib's recently-acquired dagger at his throat.

Then Lorca disembarked and headed toward four small combat crafts nearest to the launch area. The Tellarites shut their entry door, which was the signal for Otib to beam all the Tellarites, except Targ, from their ship to the transport ship. A minute later, Otib took off. Before the launch bay exit could close, Targ followed him out.

While all eyes were on the escaping ship—and the poor benighted supply transport it nearly brushed against in the process—Lorca phasered the landing struts on three of the combat crafts and hopped into the fourth, whose cockpit was left open as its pilot presumably went to help with the crisis. The landing strut sabotage wouldn't actually keep the ships from taking off, but it would raise alarms in start-up, triggering a diagnostic sequence and giving Lorca a head start.

By now, the bridge had been alerted to the problem. Discovery fired on the Tellarite ship, but it was too close to the hull to target properly. The transport vessel blundered around, trying to avoid getting hit, nearly crashing into the Tellarite ship, which took a shot across their bow. Otib—whose accent was minimal, compared to that of the Tellarites—sent a panicked distress call, audible in the docking bay: "Hold your fire, Discovery! Navigation failing! Request immediate assistance! Hold your fire!"

Lorca wouldn't put it past Tilly to blow up their own supply ship, if it got in the way. Tamping down his own regional accent, he transmitted, "Fighter 1-2-2 requesting emergency clearance to intercept fugitive vessel."

Permission was granted, and he took off. He made a show of exchanging fire with Targ's ship, then transmitted, "Transport vessel, you're in my way. Discovery, hold your fire so they can clear the area. I wanna barbecue some piggies!"

His accent slipped a little on the word 'barbecue'; hopefully nobody noticed. There was no confirmation of a cease-fire, but Discovery did pause their blasting and the transport ship limped off.

Lorca and Targ engaged in battle more intensely. Targ's shields failed. Lorca carefully avoided any direct hits on his "opponent" until he detected the transport ship, in the distance, making a sharp course correction. Then he targeted the engine and blew the Tellarite ship out of the sky.

"Nice work, 1-2-2. You are cleared to re-dock," came the transmission from Discovery.

Lorca responded, "Copy that. My pleasure. I'm coming in." Then he shorted out one of his own thrusters, causing a cascading overload in the ship's systems. "Hang on. He must've nicked me. I've got engine trouble. Initiating fire suppression."

Moments later, sounding alarmed, Lorca transmitted, "Mayday! Mayday! I'm losing containment! Request—"

The transmission cut out. Within the space of a breath, Lorca's fighter exploded.

XXXXX

Lorca materialized on the transporter pad of the supply vessel. The small space was crowded with Tellarites. Targ was nearby, and Otib was visible in the pilot's seat. "Did you get him?" Lorca asked urgently.

Both of them shook their heads solemnly. Otib said, "I couldn't detect any Klingon life signs to lock onto."

Targ added a gruff, "I scanned too. Found nothing."

Lorca sighed. "He must've already been dead." It had been a long-shot. They had no idea where, on Discovery, Ko'mek had gone. Their only hope was to get a transporter lock via his distinctive life signs, as the only Klingon on board. Of course, that only works when one is alive.

Ko'mek wasn't the first soldier Lorca had sent to his death. And all of the Tellarites had made it, though one was badly injured. Overall, a win. Assuming, of course, that Targ's friends were nearby.

They were. Once the transport vessel had put some distance between themselves and Discovery, Targ signaled the larger Tellaraite vessel, which he said was lurking not far away, in "stealth mode". The Tellarites warped in, beamed them up, and warped out. At Lorca's behest, they left the transport ship on autopilot, awaiting its crew's return to consciousness.

Lorca didn't believe in Sto-vo- _Klingon-Valhalla_ , but he nevertheless hoped that Ko'mek found himself in a better place.

XXXXX

Note: This is shaping up to be a long story—several more chapters, plus two epilogues. Our friends from prime Discovery (and Cornwell :-) will appear later on. I hope you are enjoying the ride!


	5. Chapter 5

Note: there's nothing graphic, but this chapter does contain some disturbing themes.

XXXX

The Tellarites cracked Lorca up. Seriously, it was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. They probably thought he was a bit addled.

From Lorca's observations of this "other world" he'd landed in, various species differed slightly from the ones back home. Humans were a lot meaner. Klingons, while still bloodthirsty, were a little nicer. Andorians . . . it was hard to tell, having only met the one. Back home, Andorians were fixated on a complicated code of honor and prone to react to perceived slights with hostility. But a lot of them grasped that other species just didn't get it, and thus didn't expect much from them. So, Andorians ranged from very prickly to, at least superficially, pretty mellow. Otib seemed to fall into the latter camp.

The Tellaraties Lorca was used to were selfish, pugnacious, and rude. They complained about everything and loved petty disputes. On the plus side, they were staunch allies, unquestionably loyal. Though it took a while to appreciate it, they often had a great sense of humor. And they liked it when you argued back at them. Since Lorca enjoyed a good verbal tussle, he generally got along with Tellarites just fine.

These Tellarites were exactly the same, except instead of being selfish they were altruistic.

Aggressively, obnoxiously altruistic.

"Have some more stew!"

"Don't you like the bread? Why won't you have another piece?"

Almost as soon as Otib, Lorca, Targ, and his group got on board, the Tellarites started pushing food on them. They were relentless. Otib diverted attention from himself by letting their hosts know that Lorca hadn't eaten anything in at least three days. Bastard.

Fortunately, though a little bland, the food was pretty good—kind of a vegetable hash topped with broth. The drink was even better: hard apple cider, a tad tarter than you'd find on earth, fermented in their cargo hold. Lorca wasn't stupid; he knew better than to get sloshed among strangers in a strange land. But let's just say the cider wasn't helping his project of not cracking up every time the Tellarites said or did something selfless.

Finally, the rest of the crew went about their business, leaving Lorca and Otib with Targ. Targ was sort of the first officer of this vessel, which was called _Grahl's Gift_. He had been a Captain for fifteen years and, he explained, Tellarite Captains had the option of semi-retiring by becoming senior advisors on starships. The role was like that of an executive officer and back-up Captain, but the official title translated to "Gadfly". He was literally there to be a pain in the ass, to keep the Captain and crew at their best, with no fear of professional reprisals. Lorca recalled reading about something like this in Tellarite history, from before they joined the Federation. Now, with most of their military fleet tied up in Starfleet, the role had faded out. _Too bad_ , Lorca thought. It sounded way more fun than being stuck behind a desk in your later years!

"We're headed back to Tellar," Targ said, "You can get transportation to your Resistance cell there, or we can drop you off somewhere or lend you a shuttle."

"Yeah, about that," Lorca confessed, "I'm not, uh, _officially_ associated with the Resistance."

"Are you making a liar of me?" Otib interjected. He seemed touchier here than he was on Discovery. Might be because the temperature on the Tellarite ship was several degrees higher than Starfleet normal. After the cold brig cell, Lorca found it cozy, but he could see how an Andorian might disagree.

"No. I think you were making a reasonable assumption that I would join you," Lorca answered diplomatically. "And maybe I will. But I need to figure out my own situation first."

Targ furrowed his heavy brow in confusion. Otib explained, "He thinks he's from another world. A parallel universe or dimension."

Targ stared at Lorca, who nodded sheepishly. There really wasn't any way to put it that didn't make him seem crazy.

"You believe him?" Targ asked Otib, blunt and skeptical.

Otib paused thoughtfully, then answered, "Yes, I do. I can imagine a scenario whereby the real Lorca pretends to be his doppelganger in order to infiltrate the Resistance. But why not just alter his appearance, present himself as someone less notorious? Why risk being written off as a nut or executed for Lorca's crime?"

Targ grunted in agreement.

"I'm not ready to bring him to Fire Wolf's doorstep just yet, but I trust him," Otib concluded.

Lorca felt a surge of warmth and gratitude, which only increased when Targ asked, "How can I help?"

XXXXX

The Tellarites gave Lorca a ship. They kept several on hand for incognito missions. He bargained them down to their smallest, least impressive scouting vessel; they wanted to give him something better. He promised to try to return it, but they didn't seem too worried about that. Aggressive altruism indeed.

Setting out all alone, facing an unknown universe . . . honestly, it was exhilarating. No Admirals to placate; no Ensigns to ride herd on; no Lieutenant Commanders to mentor. Of course he missed his old life and the people in it, but right at this moment he relished the opportunity to be an explorer, beholden to no one.

His immediate destination was the Vulcan Technical Institute, located on a colony outpost on Bracus V, not far from Tellar. He'd learned that the Empire was surprisingly tolerant of the Vulcans' higher education system, allowing them to operate universities on their home planet, as well as several satellite campuses, with minimal interference. This was the first evidence of sophisticated social strategy on the part of the Empire that Lorca had seen. Ongoing warfare encourages certain kinds of scientific advances, but stifles most others. Letting the Vulcans do their thing meant that broad, basic research continued; the Empire could always co-opt significant practical results. And treating the Vulcans noticeably better than they treated the Klingons, Andorians, and other allies sowed seeds of resentment within the Resistance. As the resentment was illogical, the Vulcans were unlikely to get out ahead of it with any meaningful diplomatic damage control. From his interactions with other species so far, Lorca sensed that they considered Vulcans to be their allies, but not truly their friends.

After eighteen hours of uneventful travel, when he finally sat down with the Vulcan astrophysicist whom Targ had recommended, Lorca began to share the Klingon, Andorian, and Tellarite perspective. Vulcans back home weren't known for being warm and cuddly. This guy was downright cold.

Dr. Vanik and his assistants interrogated Lorca in great detail about his experiences, performing biological and psychiatric tests. They were apparently satisfied that he was not insane. But that didn't mean they could, or would, help him.

"On the assumption that you are telling the truth, as you understand it, three questions remain: Is this a case of alternate universe intersection, or some other phenomenon? If you are indeed from an alternate universe, is it possible to return you to it? And, if it is possible, ought we do so?"

Lorca wasn't surprised at the first two questions, but the third took him aback. "Why wouldn't you send me home? If it's prime directive stuff you're worried about, I think my staying here would be more likely to muck things up than my leaving."

Vanik replied, "The prospect of travel between universes is highly speculative, but some models suggest it involves a person or object being transposed with its counterpart. That would mean that your counterpart from this universe is now in your universe . . ."

Pause.

"And you don't want him back," Lorca finished.

"Precisely. 'Our' Gabriel Lorca is second only to the Emperor in terms of inflicting death and suffering upon other sentient beings. You are, it seems, far more benign. Therefore his continued absence is a net gain."

Lorca hadn't really considered the possibility that he'd been replaced by someone else. He found the idea profoundly disturbing. "What about the havoc your guy might wreak back in my world, wearing my face? Doesn't that matter?"

"It does," Vanik admitted, "But it is reasonable to assume that, without his loyal supporters and in a strange political landscape, he may be less able to cause harm."

"That's an awfully convenient assumption," Lorca drawled, fuming.

Though the conversation left Lorca with a bad taste in his mouth, its conclusion wasn't a 'hard no'. Vanik was willing to look into the matter—Vulcan curiosity being stronger than Vulcan compassion—and he provided Lorca with scads of reading materials on alternate universe theories and a referral to a colleague, a cosmologist at another university.

The other school was more distant, in the Yadalla sector. With strategically timed fuel stops, Lorca might be able to make the trip in the scout ship, but it was a moot point. There would be checkpoints and random stops by Imperial operatives along the way. In a single-passenger ship, he would surely be identified. His best bet was to travel on a freighter or transport ship.

The Vulcans agreed to return the scout ship to the Tellarites, and they booked him transport to Norellus, an active but inconspicuous trading hub. Lorca had time _en route_ to think about how exactly he was going to make his way in this world. The Tellarites had given him some currency—enough to keep him alive for a few weeks, but not enough to get him where he needed to go. Thus, he was faced with a prospect he hadn't faced since he'd joined Starfleet at age eighteen: he needed to find a job.

XXXXX

Lorca was grateful that Terran trading vessels didn't have the tradition of addressing the owner/commander as 'Captain' or 'Sir', for he would be loath to dignify the lowlife who held that role on Freighter X414 with such a title. Lorca had signed on three weeks ago as a pilot and general crewman, having bullshitted his way through a cursory interview under a fake name. Fjord-San had a reputation for screwing his employees out of their wages, so people weren't exactly lining up for the job.

Signing on was both a calculated risk and an act of desperation. Norellus had turned out to be a wretched hive of scum and villainy:

 _First day on Norellus, walking in a crowd, getting the lay of the land. A hand snakes under his coat, reaching for his pocket. He grabs the bony arm by the wrist. Dull, hungry eyes stare back at him. The hand attached to the wrist is missing two fingers. An archaic punishment for thieving? Lorca lets go and the boy slithers back into the teeming mass of people._

 _Few days later, a narrow passageway, a looming shape appears and throws him into the wall. Dizzy. Takes a moment to distinguish two attackers: the huge one who threw him and the smaller-but-still-plenty-big one whaling at him with a sharpened metal tool. Leather coat protects him, somewhat, from the blows; he launches himself at the guy delivering them. Both assailants are twenty years younger than Lorca—fit, but untrained. Taking advantage of the tight corridor, he keeps Smaller between himself and Bigger, eventually getting the tool away from him. Rams the sharp end into the man's stomach. Surprised expression on Smaller's face as he slides down the wall to the ground, blood seeping through hands clutched to his gut. Lorca, battered and winded, backs away, brandishing the tool. Bigger shrugs and saunters off—not worth the effort after all._

 _Later, lying on a bunk, one of twenty in a cramped hostel room. Trying to sleep with one eye open. Woman's voice screaming from the other side of the wall—short, wordless cries. Unmistakable pounding rhythm conveys exactly what is happening. Speeding up. Screams become sobs. Men laughing, egging each other on. Starts again. Faces around him show crude amusement or bored indifference. Many courses of action run through Lorca's head; all the plausible ones end badly._

After a week on Norellus, he was strung out from being on edge all the time and had developed a nagging headache he couldn't shake. A freighter meant a smaller number of crewmates to keep tabs on, plus, hopefully, a modicum of order. And this one was headed in the direction Lorca needed to go. So he went for it. Three weeks later, they were set for a lay-over at a space station located about two-thirds of the way to Lorca's goal destination.

"Think you can dock 'er without banging into anything, Pops?" Darren, the asinine navigator, taunted.

They were in the operations room—home of the main assignments schedule, a long table, and the only decent coffee on board. Lorca had let his hair grow, revealing steel tones mixed in with the brown, his beard shot with silver. It made him less recognizable. It also invited ageist comments from twits like Darren.

He schooled his features into a mild smirk, which transformed into a genuine smile when Hawthorn and his wife Mellie entered the room. The pair were in charge of inventory, with Mellie keeping the books and Haw moving and stowing cargo. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the drawer and she was self-deprecating to the point of mousiness. But they were kind, morally decent people—the first Terrans he'd met who fit that description. So, he'd grown rather fond of them.

Fjord-san, their boss, walked in—right on schedule for his second coffee break of the shift. Lorca had been waiting for him. Addressing the other man, Lorca asked, "You still good with me doing the side-run? Won't leave you short?"

Fjord barely looked at him. "It's all set," he replied, "You'll get the rest of your pay when we meet up afterward."

After Fjord and Darren left the room, Haw, looking troubled, said in a hushed voice, "I don't think he's gonna pay you. He might not even wait at the rendezvous site."

Lorca was touched by Haw's concern, though it was misplaced. He knew damn well that Fjord was ditching him; he'd been manipulating the man into doing so since he'd heard about the opportunity to ride along on an automated ship that would take him the rest of the way to Yadalla. Apparently, the owners of large auto-pilot freighters often cheaped out on maintenance, such that it was good to have someone on hand to trouble shoot. Yet, there were economic benefits to keeping the ships classed as unmanned. Thus, capable stowaways were encouraged. Lorca had no connections to enter into such an arrangement safely; Fjord did. By letting Fjord think he'd tricked Lorca out of a week's pay, he'd basically gotten the man to apply his expertise in the seedy side of transport to getting Lorca where he wanted to go.

"Don't worry about it. I know what I'm doing," Lorca reassured him. Grinning, he added, "And he did pay me for my first two weeks, so how about I buy you two a drink when we're on the space station?"

"Boss wants us all to go to his pal's bar tonight . . ." said Haw.

Mellie pursed her lips anxiously.

XXXXX

Around 21:00 that night, Lorca and Haw were on the space station, sitting in a lounge with a walk-up bar, near a dozen members of the X414 crew. Their group made up about a quarter of the patrons present. The booze was mediocre and, judging by the reactions of the others, over-priced. Fjord was chatting with the owner, a flabby man pushing sixty. Presumably he'd wanted the crew there to make himself seem important. Given that Lorca was shipping out the next morning by Fjord's arrangement, he was willing to play along.

Mellie had opted out. It was probably for the best. There were only a few women there, either as appendages to tough-looking men, or themselves aggressive or aggressively flirtatious.

In response to Lorca's inquiry, Haw was telling how he and Mellie met: ". . . and she wouldn't even look at me, 'cause she assumed I was making fun of her. I told her that'd be mean and I would never do that, but she didn't believe me."

"How'd you convince her?"

"I dunno. Just kept at it, I guess."

Lorca wondered what these two were like in his own universe, if they existed there. A brilliant jerk and a narcissistic vixen? Nah, from what he saw on the Buran, people here weren't directly opposite their doubles back home. Rather, they shared some core characteristics, though twisted for better or worse—usually worse. He was less disturbed than perhaps he ought to be by the fact that his own counterpart had attempted regicide. Lorca liked being in charge; he accepted the authority of others only because he believed in the system as a whole. In a dog-eat-dog world like this one, it made sense to try to be the top dog.

When exotic dancers began sashaying out to the open area in the middle of the tables, Haw excused himself. This led to mockery from their peers. Lorca came to Haw's defense: "Oh, please. Like he isn't the only one of us who's gonna get laid tonight—without having to pay for it."

The dancers were better than the drinks. There were three Terran women (one of whom was made up to appear Vulcan, though long hair covered her ears) and one Orion. The latter was captivating. Lorca felt like a dirty old man for enjoying her show, as the girl looked to be only barely legal. Then something clicked in his mind and his stomach dropped: she was wearing thick metal bands around her arms.

He'd seen "Orion Slave Girls" dance before. They weren't actually slaves; on the contrary, they were quite adept at getting men to do their bidding. The metal bands were part of their act, enhancing their kinky sensuality. But the bands on this girl's arms were heavier, with a link of chain attached to each. The green skin above and below them was subtly discolored. Fjord's buddy put his hands on her in a way that screamed 'ownership'.

The dancing transitioned into lap-dancing. The Terran girls seemed to have some discretion as to whom they serviced. The Orion girl, who was more in demand, had less control. Men pawed at her relentlessly. Fjord did something to her that made her stifle a pained squeal; he apparently like that, so he did it again. Darren, at the next table over, leered and edged closer.

As decking his boss would screw up Lorca's plans, he unobtrusively exited.

XXXXX

The automated freighter was due to depart at 07:00. Lorca had checked in with the administrator before 06:00 and received a key card that would let him enter the freighter through a service hatch. He went back to the lodging and entertainment section of the space station, ostensibly to say 'goodbye' to Mellie, should she happen to be out in the café this early.

That wasn't really why he was there. He was there to do something stupid.

The lounge they had gathered in last night was deserted, except for a patron passed out on the floor. Lorca walked through it and through a door behind the bar. The station's schematics hadn't been hard to access via a public console. From the information there, and a process of elimination, he'd figured out the most likely place to find what he was looking for.

After several twists and turns, he arrived outside a locked door. The mechanism was simple. Lorca had worked his way up through the ranks in Security, before switching to Command; he was confident that he could pop the panel and override the lock. But that wouldn't do any good if the owner, or armed guards, were home. So he rang the buzzer. No reply.

Last chance to come to his senses.

 _The woman on Norellus. Cries choked down to exhausted whimpers. He did nothing._

He went ahead and jimmied the door.

He found himself in a small room with a narrow bed. The occupant of the bed stared up at him, dark eyes large in her green face, chains leading from her arms to a ring embedded in the wall.

Lorca addressed the Orion girl, "I'm leaving the station now. Do you want me to take you with me?"

She looked puzzled, then hopeful. "Did you buy me from my master?"

"I don't buy people," he spat, then, softening his tone he added, "But apparently I do steal 'em. Are you coming?"

The girl thought for a moment, then smiled and nodded eagerly. She glanced up at her chains, but Lorca was already moving. He used a small laser tool he'd nicked from the X414 storeroom to cut through the chains a couple of links away from the arm bands.

"Get dressed. Grab anything small that's precious to you and a change of clothes."

He turned away from her, monitoring the corridor outside the door. Three minutes later, she was dressed and holding a stuffed tote bag. He was pleased that she'd chosen practical attire: pants and a long, loose sweater with a hood that somewhat hid her distinctive attributes.

Lorca manually closed the door behind them and they slipped back down the hall. He had the early hour, and dumb luck, to thank for the fact that he'd been able to come this far undetected. That luck ran out as they rounded a corner to find a woman walking toward them. Lorca almost didn't recognize the pseudo-Vulcan dancer without her fake eyebrows.

The woman sized Lorca up briefly, then locked eyes with his companion. The Orion girl ran forward, and the two embraced tightly for a moment. Holding her young friend by the hand, the woman beckoned Lorca to follow, showing them a shortcut that led back to the bar entrance.

She addressed Lorca matter-of-factly, "I saw nothing. Unless you get caught, in which case I'll tell them you kidnapped her against her will."

Fair enough. Against his better judgement, he asked, "Do you want to come, too?"

She shook her head, "I'm indentured. The other girls are pros. Jizeet is the only one with nothing to lose." Squeezing then releasing the green hand, she added, "You're not the first besotted male to try to make off with her, though you may be the first to do it sober."

Speaking of sober, as they parted company with the woman at the entrance to the bar, the passed-out man whom Lorca had noted earlier was beginning to rouse himself. It was Darren. Lorca made sure to stay outside his field of vision, but Jizeet took a more proactive approach: she clocked him over the head with a heavy pitcher from one of the tables.

A promising means of misdirection snapped into focus for Lorca. Squashing down pangs of conscience, he used a bar towel to wipe down the laser tool, then dropped it on the floor near Darren. When the scene was discovered, it would look like Darren had freed Jizeet, presumably to have his way with her, then she knocked him out and escaped. It would be logical to assume that she would hide herself on the station until she could seduce her way onto a departing ship. The automated freighter would be one of the least-suspected modes of escape, lacking a captain or crew to entrance. Oh, eventually the threads of the scenario would unravel, or Fjord might put two and two together. But by then they would be long gone.

It would be less conspicuous if they approached the freighter separately. Lorca told Jizeet where it was docked. He wasn't naive enough to give her the key card, but there was a meter-deep structure around the hatch that she could hide herself in if she arrived first. They parted, and he took a leisurely stroll along the string of merchant stands near the docking ring. Hopefully, if questioned, someone would recall seeing him alone.

They met up at the hatch at 06:50 and slipped inside. Lorca stood attentively at the hatch window as the ship launched and headed away from the station. Feeling the subtle kick as they went into low warp, he relaxed almost imperceptibly and allowed himself to contemplate what he'd done.

Darren was obnoxious but, truthfully, his only crime was getting on Lorca's bad side.

 _If they cut off your fingers for pick-pocketing, I wonder what they cut off for trying to steal a sex slave._

Yep, ready to go back home any time now . . .

XXXXX

Sorry for the delay in posting – hope my readers are still with me!


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